The leaves in my neighborhood are not extraordinary leaves.
They are as ordinary as the houses that line the streets.
But yet, each spring they miraculously emerge from the frost laden branches
peeking out demurely from the pink, fragrant blossoms.
All summer they hold forth, green, shady respite.
And then in fall, one last riotous hurrah, golden, red, orange before
The wind blows and skeletal trees remain to begin the long wait for spring.
I take it back, they are extraordinary.
